


Untouch

by Helholden



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Bittersweet, Cross-Generation Relationship, Dark Comedy, Developing Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Pushing Daisies AU, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 10:53:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2770361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helholden/pseuds/Helholden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She played with daisies when she was nine, plucking their petals off one by one. Her mother died that week, but Lydia’s touch brought her back to life. Two days later, her mother died again from kissing Lydia goodnight, and that was the beginning of when she knew—the second touch takes back the life it had given. It was fate, and she was cursed. Ten years later, history threatens to repeat itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_* * *_

 

Lydia played with daisies when she was nine years old, plucking their petals off one by one and counting them surreptitiously under her breath. Even if no one was around, she was careful to keep her voice low. It was magical, and if anyone heard her, the magic wouldn’t work.

 

She didn’t know what kind of magic. She didn’t particularly bother to select one, truth be told. Lydia had finished her homework early, as she always did, because she was so bright for her age. Now she was out of the house, trying to find ways to pass the time. Imagination was her favorite. Lydia was beyond other kids her age. They were too boring to hang out with, though she would change her mind when she was older, dumb herself down to have friends, but for now, Lydia was content with just her imagination.

 

Everyone said she was so intelligent. All of the adults said it, so it must have been true. _She will be someone special when she grows up_ , they’d all say.

 

Plucking another white petal from the yellow bud, Lydia hummed to herself as it fell to the grass below.

 

-

 

Surrounded by the yellow and red crunch of fallen leaves under the flash of red and blue lights, Lydia saw her mother pinned in her vehicle.

 

 _She’s dead_ , they said. _What’s she doing? Keep that little girl away!_

 

Lydia had run across the street to her mother, but her father grabbed her arms to hold her back. They were working to release the door from the vehicle to pull her mother out of it, and Lydia sobbed and sobbed as she tried to wrench away from her dad. He held her fast, though, and enveloped her in a hug.

 

When they retrieved her mom from the car, Lydia tore free from her dad’s arms and went running.

 

The first thing Lydia did was touch her mother’s hand as she cried and shook her arm, begging her to come back.

 

And, for the first time, the magic worked.

 

Her mother gasped on the stretcher, eyes flying open, and their hands flew apart by some force outside of Lydia’s control.

 

 _It’s not possible!_ they said. _She couldn’t have survived that!_

 

It was the first time Lydia discovered that adults could be wrong—because her mother was very much alive and breathing, and then she was sitting up quickly to gather her little Lydia into her arms and sob herself.

 

“I thought I would never see you again,” her mother said into her hair. Her arms squished Lydia’s oversized coat.

 

-

 

The very next morning, they heard about Sheriff Stilinski’s wife.

 

She died from an aneurysm in her sleep.

 

Lydia went to the funeral with her family. She glanced at the front pews, seeing a little boy no older than her, crying silently beside the sheriff.

 

She looked up at her own mother. With a pink-gloved hand, Lydia grasped her mom’s hand and was thankful to still have her.

 

Miracles did happen sometimes.

 

-

 

Only one day later, Lydia’s mother kissed her goodnight with a peck on the lips, and Lydia went to sleep with a smile on her face.

 

-

 

Lydia woke up the next morning.

 

Her mother never woke up again.

 

-

 

They held the funeral that week. The little boy that Lydia saw during the funeral for the sheriff’s wife showed up.

 

He didn’t say anything, but he threw his arms around her and hugged her.

 

Lydia cried and hugged him back.

 

-

 

Lydia and Stiles were good friends for that year until they found a dead butterfly laying in the grass, and Stiles picked it up.

 

“Ew, look at this,” he said, dangling it by its wing. “Cool,” he then added, a slow smile appearing on his face as he looked from the dead butterfly to Lydia.

 

“That’s gross,” Lydia told him, but she liked butterflies, and she wanted to give it a proper burial. She held out her hand. “Here, give it to me.”

 

Stiles dropped it into her hand, and with a sudden _zap_ , Lydia’s eyes flew open as the butterfly hit her hand, touching her skin, and came alive again. It fluttered up into the air, and Stiles opened his mouth. His jaw fell.

 

“Wait—” he said. “How did you—”

 

Lydia was amazed, and she grinned as her eyes lit up. Reaching up her hand, the butterfly came back down slowly and landed on her finger.

 

With another small _zap_ , it tottered dead to the ground.

 

Lydia gasped, jerking her hand back. Stiles stared in horror.

 

The realization of what she had done hit Lydia with a crushing weight upon her chest. She crouched down, reaching out for the butterfly, scooping it up into her hands. She poked it gently, but a third touch would not bring it back.

 

It was dead for good this time.

 

And that was when Lydia realized her power—and how it was no power at all. It was a curse. She was cursed. Her mother couldn’t have survived that. The adults had been right, after all.

 

Lydia’s touch had brought her back to life, and Lydia’s touch had killed her.

 

Stiles finally spoke.

 

“ _Cool_ ,” he said. “Let’s try it on a dog.”

 

-

 

They found a dog dead from a hit-and-run, and Lydia wanted to test it one more time just to make sure. She touched the dog, and it suddenly rose from the street to shake off its fur and wag its tail happily at them. Stiles laughed and hugged it, and Lydia smiled.

 

Well, maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.

 

-

 

Raising the stray dog from the dead had consequences. Her neighbor’s dog died. There was no hit-and-run. No accident. No sickness. He just dropped dead in the middle of playing fetch. It took Lydia a few days to realize it had happened not long after the moment she had brought the other dog back to life.

 

When she told Stiles about this, and then explained the situation with her mother to him, Stiles seemed intrigued at first until his face took on a darker expression.

 

“So,” he said quietly, “a life for a life?”

 

Lydia nodded her head.

 

“Wait,” Stiles added, “when did your mom have the accident?”

 

“September 23rd,” Lydia told him.

 

Stiles went still. “What time?”

 

“I don’t know,” Lydia said, shaking her head. “It was dark. Past my bedtime. My dad woke me up.”

 

His mouth made a hard, thin line. His usually warm brown eyes appeared black. “My mother died September 23rd,” Stiles whispered. “She just went to sleep, and she never woke up . . . ”

 

Lydia’s eyes went wide. Gulping, she reached out for him—

 

But Stiles tore away from her. “You killed my _mom_ ,” he snapped at her.

 

Stiles ran off.

 

He never talked to Lydia again.

 

-

 

Lydia began wearing gloves. She stopped letting people touch her. She stopped touching people.

 

Her powers only worked on the dead and those brought back to life, but the kiss of her mother had scarred her—and the harsh words from her friend, Stiles, had erased her trust of people.

 

She was the power of death walking on earth, and Lydia never wanted anyone to suffer because of her ever again.

 

-

 

Ten years later, Lydia is falling asleep when her dreams turn from lying in bed to lying in a bed of soft soil—worms crawling up, wriggling in her hair—and all she can do is scream, trying to rise. Hands shoot out of the soil, grasping her, pulling her under until she can’t breathe, until she’s surrounded with black soil, worms, and the scent of decay.

 

Eventually, she wrenches free and shoots upward—

 

Only to find herself back in bed again, in her home. She glances around her room quickly, breathing hard. She gets up from bed and fetches a glass of water.

 

She doesn’t go back to sleep that night. The dreams of being pulled under are too close to the surface.

 

-

 

The dreams keep happening. Over and over, and Lydia can’t escape them. Every time, the hands pull her under.

 

She stops sleeping altogether for three days.

 

-

 

The dreams bleed into reality. In the middle of a shower, the water turns murky and muddy, and Lydia almost has a panic attack as she watches the water rise up and up. She can’t breathe properly, and she reaches beneath the water to unclog the drain. Wrenching out hair in her fist, she stares at it in horror.

 

An arm shoots out of its depths, grasping her arm and yanking her under.

 

Lydia screams. As the water fills her mouth, she realizes the hand has let her go. She flies upward, choking out clear water.

 

Shaking, she drains the bottom of the tub and stumbles out of the stall.

 

-

 

Lydia is in the library of the local community college, trying to piece together bits and pieces of information to make sense of what has been happening to her. The only problem is she is sure there is no invaluable information for her condition in public books. Her eyes scan a new page, fingertip sliding over the smooth script on the paper.

 

 _Help me_ , a voice whispers.

 

Lydia glances around the tables surrounding her. Few people are there, but none of them are close to her. None of them are looking at her. The voice was distant, muted, like an echo in a wide open space. The hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

 

“Who’s there?” she asks softly, not loud enough for anyone nearby to hear her.

 

 ** _Help me_** , the voice urges again, stronger this time, like a wave breaking against a barrier and sending a _boom_ throughout her skull.

 

Lydia stands up quickly, gathering her books. “Leave me _alone_ ,” she shouts. Eyes turn to look at her, gazing oddly. Lydia ignores them, hurrying out of the library, but she can’t shake the feeling of another pair of eyes on her back.

 

Even when she gets into the car, she still feels them.

 

-

 

He comes to her at nightfall later that week, standing at the foot of her bed. The man looks like death in a long black trench coat, covered in dirt from head to toe. Worms crawl over his face, though he doesn’t seem to feel them. A few fall to the carpet below. His hair is caked back with mud instead of product, and he smiles at her when she notices him. He is something that walked out of a horror movie, but he stands there like he is real.

 

He looks real.

 

Lydia has frozen in place on her bed, staring at him. Her fingers clutch the covers hard, nails digging. She wants to scream, but her lips are trembling, her throat is dry. She doubts anyone would hear her.

 

“What do you want?” she asks, pleading with him. She doesn’t understand why he is here. She doesn’t even know who he is. Lydia has never seen his face before in her entire life. He is no one to her.

 

He smiles, and maybe he means it kindly—or maybe not—but his teeth are razor sharp and they glint in the sliver of moonlight.

 

“C’mon,” he says softly. There is a patronizing tone beneath his voice. He raises his eyebrows, a worm wriggling near his eye. He gives her a look like a parent about to scold a child. “You’re smarter than that, Lydia. You know what I want.”

 

Lydia takes a deep breath. _How does he know my name?_

 

Pushing the thought aside, she realizes what he is asking for. He isn’t real, but he might be. He might be if she brings him back. Lydia hasn’t used her powers in over ten years, but if it will make the nightmares stop, she doesn’t see how she has much of a choice. Lydia shakes her head.

 

“I don’t even know where to find you,” she says.

 

He raises his chin, holding out his hand to her. “I’ll show you.”

 

-

 

Lydia treks through mud and leaves and bracken to an old, burned down house in the middle of the woods. She walks inside until she finds the floorboards loose beneath her feet. The purple-flowered vines—aconite—stretch across the floor to delve into the center of the hole.

 

Inside of it, she finds his body—buried upright and wrapped in wolfsbane. Lydia has nothing to cut them with, so she digs at them with her nails. She breaks two nails, fingers sore, before she gives up. She may as well touch him and get it over with. It’s his hole. He can dig himself out of it.

 

Her hand shakes as she extends it to his shoulder, and then she touches him.

 

With a soft _zap_ between her skin and his, he comes alive.

 

He bursts through the vines, causing Lydia to gasp with a shrill noise of surprise as she falls back onto her heels. She heaves deep breaths in through her mouth as she watches him rise out of the ground, dry dust and dirt scattering through the air in a cloud around them. He climbs from the hole, rising to his feet, as the dust settles back to the ground. His body is naked and covered in dirt, but he doesn’t seem to mind her staring.

 

“Someone else will die,” Lydia announces with a shaky voice as she looks up at him. “To take your place, if you stay alive.”

 

“As long as it’s not me again,” he says, walking past her, “I don’t care.”

 

-

 

On the third day, Lydia tries to drown her nervous energy with a cup of coffee at a little shop down the street. The caffeine has the opposite effect on her nerves, though. They are more jittery than ever before, and Lydia begins glancing out of the windows to gaze at the people passing by. She wonders, not without a fair share of guilt, which unlucky person dropped dead because of her. She wonders which person’s life she bargained for to save the stranger beneath the floorboards at the manor house in the woods.

 

 _Maybe he was murdered_ , Lydia reflects. _Maybe he wants revenge_ _against whoever killed him_.

 

Under the floorboards of a house is an unnatural resting place for a body. Lydia can’t help but think that someone had killed him and stuffed the body there to hide the crime. It soothes her nerves some to think of that scenario, so she holds onto the thought as she sips her coffee when someone sits down in the seat across from her.

 

“Hello again,” comes his familiar voice.

 

It’s the same one that haunted Lydia in her dreams and waking hours for weeks.

 

She stills completely, gazing over the rim of her mug to see his smiling face. He is all cleaned up now and in pristine condition, his hair combed back and a neatly trimmed moustache and goatee on his face. Lydia lowers her mug to the table.

 

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

 

He looks casually over his shoulder. “Getting coffee,” he says, returning his gaze to her. “This is a coffee shop, isn’t it?” When she doesn’t respond, he narrows his eyes just slightly and purses his lips. His gaze is searing, trying to read into her. “You don’t look too happy to see me again.”

 

Lydia crosses her arms. She feels a small well of anger surging up at his flippant words. “I don’t make it a habit to see people I’ve brought back from the dead.”

 

“Touché,” he answers her. He holds out his hand across the table. “I’m Peter Hale, by the way. I realize we didn’t have a _proper_ introduction, what with me rising from the dead and all.”

 

Lydia glances down at his hand. She draws her arms back to herself, tugging her sleeves over her hands. Peter notices. Slowly, he folds his fingers into his palm and pulls his hand away.

 

“Have I said something wrong?”

 

Quickly, she stands up. “I have to be going now,” Lydia says. She grabs her bag and hurries for the door.

 

She doesn’t look back to see him watching her leave.

 

-

 

It doesn’t take Lydia long to realize she is being followed.

 

Peter has been following her for a few days now. He never follows her home, but she sees him in public, and he’ll cut away from his course to trek behind hers. He doesn’t take it too far, so Lydia doesn’t panic, but it makes her uncomfortable. Peter is invading her personal space, and she wants to ask why.

 

About a week into it, she can’t take it anymore. Lydia whirls around after she has passed a corner, waiting for him to appear. He does, stopping instantly when he sees her. He looks like a dog caught in headlights.

 

“ _Why_ are you following me?” Lydia snaps. She doesn’t have any patience to be nice today.

 

He has to think about his answer.

 

“I was waiting,” Peter finally says, “for an opportunity to talk to you.”

 

Lydia thinks he is hiding something. If he had to think about it, then it wasn’t his first thought. “If I talk to you, will you stop following me?”

 

“Yes,” he answers immediately.

 

She sighs. “All right, what is it?”

 

He walks towards her, hands in his pockets. “Do you want to get coffee together sometime?”

 

Lydia stares at him, her mouth open. “You’ve been following me,” she says very slowly, “to ask me out on a _date_?”

 

Peter shakes his head, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s not a date. I just asked if you wanted to get coffee together sometime.”

 

“I don’t even _know_ you,” Lydia tells him. “I don’t know _why_ you were buried in that house.”

 

“My nephew killed me,” he says, like he’s discussing the weather with her. “We had a disagreement, but we sorted all that out now.”

 

“Did you _kill_ him?”

 

Peter laughs. “Please, I wouldn’t kill my own nephew.”

 

“But he killed _you_ ,” Lydia says in disbelief.

 

Peter raises his eyebrows, nodding his head. “It’s a complicated situation.”

 

Lydia opens her mouth, and then she closes it. She doesn’t know what to say to that. Touching her forehead, she turns away. “Look, I can’t—”

 

“So,” he calls out, “you can live with raising the dead, but you can’t talk to them?”

 

Lydia freezes in place. “That’s not fair.”

 

“Life is a series of ‘not fairs,’” Peter tells her. “Welcome to living.”

 

Lydia doesn’t miss the irony of him saying that to her. She whirls around to face him. “All right,” she snaps. “One cup of coffee. Got it?”

 

Peter smiles. “Got it.”

 

-

 

“I’m a werewolf,” he tells her over coffee the next morning, and Lydia spits it up everywhere and grabs a napkin to clean up the mess. “Oh, c’mon,” he says as she cleans it up. “You bring back people from the dead. It can’t be too hard for you to swallow.”

 

Lydia glares at him as she wipes down the table. “You know, you don’t _act_ your age.” She points the wet napkin at him. “How old are you, anyway?”

 

Peter glances down at his coffee and takes another drink, pointedly ignoring her question. Afterwards, he says, “That’s not important.”

 

“Fine, I’ll guess.” Lydia throws the napkin down. “Thirty-five.”

 

He lifts his eyebrows. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

 

“You’re older than that?”

 

“I didn’t say anything.”

 

“Forty,” Lydia says next. Peter is still silent. Her eyes go wide. “You’re _older_ than forty? When were you born?”

 

He looks at her, all seriousness. “It’s not important.”

 

“I’m only nineteen,” Lydia admits. “If you’re older than forty, you’re old enough to be my father.”

 

“I thought this wasn’t a date,” Peter says, his eyes meeting hers across the table. It took her this moment to notice, but his eyes are a pretty shade of blue. Lydia is horrified at herself for noticing.

 

“It’s not,” she defends herself.

 

“Then why are you so worried about my age?” Peter asks, crossing his arms over his chest as leans back in his seat.

 

“Because it’s weird,” Lydia says. “You don’t look any older than thirty-five.”

 

Peter is silent for a moment, and then he leans forward. “Like I said,” he says in a low voice, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

 

Both of them are silent, staring at each other across the table. After a moment, he reaches out for her. Quickly, she pulls back, her chair screeching across the floor. Peter stills, his hand midair. People turn to look. Lydia feels their stares.

 

Peter draws his hand back to himself slowly.

 

“You can’t touch me,” Lydia says.

 

“I gather that,” he says, “from the way you—”

 

“No, not like that,” she answers him quickly. “I mean—” Lydia sighs. “There’s a reason I don’t talk to the dead I brought back. One touch brings them back to life, but a second touch kills them again and a third touch does nothing.” She shakes her head. “After the second touch, no one comes back.”

 

His eyes grow wide, and Lydia immediately regrets telling him. She gets up as fast as she can, snatching her bag. “I have to go—”

 

“Wait—” But he doesn’t reach out for her this time, and Lydia doesn’t listen.

 

She hurries out of the coffee shop and away from the street past traffic, praying he isn’t following her. This was a mistake.

 

It’s always a mistake.

 

-

 

When Lydia opens her door one morning to find Peter Hale standing there, she can do nothing but gape at him. He smiles at her.

 

“Good morning,” he says.

 

“What are you doing here?” she asks immediately.

 

Peter holds up a bouquet of flowers he had been hiding behind his back. They are blue and purple orchids laced with bleeding hearts. Lydia has never seen an arrangement like it before, but she is more shocked by his presence than by the flowers in his hand.

 

“I brought you flowers,” he says, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to do after their last conversation.

 

“What is _wrong_ with you?” Lydia demands.

 

Peter seems taken aback by her reaction. “I thought we could still talk,” he says. “I want us to be friends—”

 

“I don’t _care_ what you want!” she hollers. “I want you to _leave me alone_!”

 

Lydia slams the door in his face.

 

When she goes back to check an hour later, he is gone, but he left the bouquet of colorful flowers on her doorstep. Lydia picks them up and chunks them over the balcony of her apartment.

 

They scatter like leaves on the sidewalk below.

 

-

 

Lydia doesn’t want to admit it, but she is starting to miss the strange, demanding presence of Peter Hale. Stiles never wanted anything to do with her ever again as soon as he found out the extent of what her powers could do, and yet even when faced with a certain possibility of death, Peter still showed up at her doorstep. He was insane, she decided, and left it at that.

 

Only she couldn’t leave it at that.

 

She keeps looking over her shoulder, glancing around in hopes of seeing him. It is never his face that she sees, though, and it goes on for weeks until Lydia finds herself sitting in that same coffee shop, hoping he shows up again.

 

Maybe, just maybe, he will.

 

After waiting for two hours one day, she finally gets up to leave. Rushing out the door, Lydia runs smack into someone and backs up, raising her gloved hands, to apologize. “I am so sorry—”

 

“Well, at least I’m not dead,” he says, and Lydia looks up.

 

It’s Peter.

 

She exhales sharply. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

 

Peter gives her a look. “Do I detect hopefulness in your tone?”

 

Lydia shrugs her bag a bit higher. “Come over,” she says.

 

He raises his eyebrows. “To your apartment?”

 

“Yes.”

 

He looks doubtful. “Last time I was there, you slammed the door in my face.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

Peter gives her a more serious look this time. “You mean it.”

 

“Yes,” Lydia repeats.

 

Peter nods his head. “All right,” he agrees.

 

-

 

“Your gift,” Peter says carefully. “Does it work like that on all people? Even the ones you haven’t brought back from the dead?” He glances down at her hands. “Is that why you wear gloves all the time?”

 

They are sitting in her apartment in the window alcove. He has been here all day with her, and now the sun is gone, leaving them in a cast of dark blue. She hasn’t even gotten up to turn one of the lights on, but the curtain is wide open and there is plenty of soft light from sky outside.

 

Lydia wrings her hands together. “No,” she says, “it doesn’t work like that. Only people I’ve brought back.”

 

“So, you can have a normal life, then? Meet boys . . . ” Peter leans toward her. “Have fun.” There is a change in his tone, though, and Lydia bristles at it.

 

“I could,” she snaps, unable to hide the edge in her voice, “but the last person to kiss me was my mother, and it _killed_ her—”

 

“Because you brought her back.”

 

“Still,” Lydia insists, “it doesn’t change the fact that _I_ killed her. A scar like that doesn’t just leave. You don’t start _kissing_ everyone after it kills your mother—”

 

Peter leans in quickly, and Lydia yanks back with a gasp. Her head hits the wall to her left, and she stares at him in horror. Lydia shakes her head quickly. “No,” she whispers. “Please don’t.”

 

He is so close to her, though. Peter exhales against her lips, a gush of warm air. “It would be worth it,” he murmurs.

 

“You’re crazy,” she murmurs right back.

 

Peter tilts his head to the side. “I hear that a lot.”

 

“Because it’s true,” she whispers.

 

Peter breathes out, pulling away from her. “Fair enough,” he says. Lydia exhales shakily, righting herself again in the seat. “But as long as skin isn’t touching, the rules don’t apply, right?”

 

“What kind of question is that?”

 

Peter shrugs. “I’m just trying to understand your condition.”

 

Lydia blinks a few times. “As it relates to _you_.”

 

Peter shifts his eyes toward her, gazing at her from the corner of them. There is a knowing look in them. A small smile appears on his lips. “I’m naturally curious,” he says.

 

“You have a death wish.”

 

Peter holds up a finger. “I’ve already been dead,” he clarifies. “Living is so much more fun.”

 

“Then, why are you here?” Lydia asks him. “One wrong touch, and it kills you.” She stares at him. “You understand that, right?”

 

“I like you, Lydia,” Peter says conversationally, rising from the seat in the alcove. He grabs his jacket, slipping it on one arm at a time. “I didn’t think I needed any more reasons than that.”

 

He leaves her apartment, calling out a goodnight at the doorway, leaving Lydia to sit in silence and contemplate his last words.

 

-

 

He touches her one day when he is over at her apartment. It’s nothing more than his hand to her back, but Lydia jumps, leaning forward over the counter as if it’ll help her escape his hand. “It’s just my hand,” Peter says, removing it from her back. He brings it within her vision, wiggling clothed fingers in front of her face. “And I’m wearing gloves.” He lowers his hand. “As well as long sleeves.”

 

Lydia sighs deeply, scooping her braid over her shoulder. “You’ll kill me before I kill you.”

 

“If you mean by nerves, I can think of much better things to do to them that will cause shock without any killing involved.”

 

Lydia hits him with a pot holder. “What is _wrong_ with you?”

 

“Ow,” Peter says, though it obviously didn’t hurt him. “I thought we established that already.”

 

“You’re _insane_.”

 

“Yes,” he says, backing her into the counter, placing a hand on either side of the surface behind her so she can’t escape. “I thought we established that already.”

 

“What are you doing?” Lydia asks, leaning away from him. It puts some distance between their faces and chests, but there is too much close proximity in the areas below the belt line. Lydia doesn’t want to admit it, but she likes it. However, she is also terrified—one slip of skin, and he’ll fall dead.

 

“Let me touch you,” Peter murmurs.

 

“No.”

 

“ _Please_ ,” he says, leaning over her. Lydia can’t bend backwards any further. Her back is straining, and he isn’t giving her any leeway.

 

“My back hurts,” Lydia tells him, and Peter eases up on her, placing one of his hands on the small of her back to hold her to him. They stare at each other until Lydia realizes something. For the look in Peter’s eyes as he gazes at her, she feels a strange tingle in her spine.

 

“You won’t give up, will you?” she asks softly, and Peter shakes his head.

 

“No,” he says, “I won’t.”

 

“Why?”

 

Peter’s eyes rise to her forehead, and his other hand appears next to her temple, a single finger running gently into her hairline. “You’re fascinating and intelligent . . . ” He runs his hand over her hair, cupping Lydia at the back of her head. “ . . . Witty, full of charm.” His eyes drop back to hers. “And incredibly beautiful. And I want you.”

 

Lydia breathes through her lips. She doesn’t know what to say. “Fine,” she blurts out. “Touch me.” Peter raises his eyebrows. “Before I change my mind.”

 

Peter’s breath quickens for just a moment, and then he moves his hand from the back of Lydia’s head to her neck, brushing the soft cotton of his fingertips against her collarbone. She breathes harder despite such a small touch, leaning her head back. His fingers are soft and slow, tracing over her throat, down to her clavicles, and then lower down her chest.

 

His hand ghosts over her breast through her shirt, and Lydia’s breath hitches. He notices, glancing at her face before lowering his eyes once more, and he raises his hand back to neck and collar, slipping it under her shirt to graze the skin. Peter leans in close, breathing on her neck through his mouth, and Lydia moans softly, placing a hand on the counter to steady her.

 

He pulls back, not risking too much close proximity of skin, and puts both hands on her shoulders, tracing them by fingertip only down her arms to her wrists. A deep shiver passes through her arms and shoulders, especially as he starts to run them back up again. It’s an innocent touch, a gentle touch, and the hairs stand up on the back of her neck as his fingers graze up into the hairline beneath her braid. Lydia shivers violently, locking eyes with him—and then it’s just too much.

 

She barrels past him, halting at the edge of the kitchen tiles. “This is dangerous,” Lydia says. She doesn’t understand why he’s insisting on it. Most people would run in the opposite direction if they knew she had the power to kill them will a single touch, but Peter—he seems thrilled by it.

 

He comes up behind her, resting his hands on her hips, and presses his chest to her back. Peter leans into her hair, nudges his nose in it, breathing in the scent of it heavily. He kisses her braid at the back, and his fingers are at the apex of her neck, gently stroking upward, brushing down, over and over. “Hmm,” he hums against her, “so hair doesn’t count.”

 

His words snap her from the reverie of his hands, and Lydia pulls away. She turns to face him, eyeing him hard. “Is this a game to you?”

 

“There is a game in this,” Peter admits. “But if I wasn’t interested in you, Lydia,” he adds, giving her a knowing look, “I wouldn’t play.”

 

“So, you _are_ playing,” she says.

 

Peter appears genuinely confused. He squints at her. “You misunderstand me,” he says. He steps forward, reaching up to curve his fingers over her ear. The soft material of his glove tickles her. “There are limits to how I can touch you, but I want to find the highest one—”

 

Lydia jerks away from his hand. “Get out.”

 

Peter looks confused again. “Lydia—”

 

“ _Get out_ ,” she grounds between her teeth.

 

Peter looks like he wants to say something—argue it or get angry—but there is nothing he can do to her, anyway. Lydia has no fear for him, and if he’s going to get angry over her turning him down because she is a game to him, then he can go to hell.

 

Peter leaves without saying another word, but she can feel him fuming with each step he takes towards the door—and long after he’s gone.

 

-

 

He’s at her door again two days later.

 

“Do you _never_ learn—” Lydia says in disbelief until he pushes his way past her into her apartment. She turns around, gaping at him as he paces her floor.

 

“This isn’t fair,” Peter blurts out, stopping long enough to look at her.

 

“All about you,” Lydia says in a droll voice, putting a hand on her hip. “Why am I not surprised?”

 

He storms up to her. “This _isn’t_ all about me. This is about you, too. You can’t lie to me. I _felt_ it. Your perfect little ice queen walls you’ve built. You pretend to like them, and you hate it. You hate every _second_ of it.”

 

Lydia swallows past a knot in her throat, her eyes feeling watery. “Let me guess. You’re the white knight to break down my walls and rescue me from my tower.” Her voice is dry, unlike her eyes, and deadpan.

 

Peter actually laughs at that. “Oh, I’m no knight, and you’re no damsel.”

 

“Then, what are we?” she asks, crossing her arms. “Go on. Entertain me.”

 

“Two people,” he says simply. “Scarred and dead on the inside, pretending to be anything but.”

 

Lydia doesn’t like how his words hit home. Her tongue is dry and rough against the roof of her mouth, and she looks away from his gaze. “I’m not dead inside.”

 

“You’re getting there.”

 

She meets his eyes again. “What if I want to be?”

 

“You don’t,” Peter says. “You love company. You crave it.”

 

“Like you crave the sound of your own voice?” Lydia suggests, the nicest tone to keep things civil between them. Peter doesn’t take it as an insult. He takes her by the waist instead, too close for comfort. She doesn’t tell him to let go. He doesn’t do anything, and she waits—but he’s waiting for her.

 

“Maybe,” Peter tells her, “I’m starting to crave something else a little more.”

 

Slowly, Lydia shakes her head. The movement is jerky, off kilter. “This isn’t going to work,” she whispers.

 

Peter leans in close, scenting her from jaw to temple. He breathes out near her hair. “Isn’t that the beauty of it?”

 

-

 

When she agrees to let him touch her, she isn’t sure what she expected from him. Something pornographic, probably; he has the mind for it, but his fingers are like a violinist’s touch on a set of delicate strings along her back, tracing up the bare arch of her skin. He’s wearing gloves, of course, and his arms are covered in long sleeves, but still, she feels it deep in her bones—the delicate, light strokes. They invoke tingles that make her shiver, and then squirm. Bare from neck to waist, no shirt, no bra, she is exposed, but she doesn’t feel that way.

 

She lies on her stomach upon her bed. Peter sits beside her, appropriate with her rather than taking advantage of the situation. Lydia figures it isn’t something she has to worry about with him, anyway. It’s not as if they can have sex. He knows the boundaries, and any mistake is only going to be deadly for him. Lydia finds herself slipping into a relaxed state of mind, but also notices the wetness between her legs accompanied with a small throb. She can’t do anything about it, so she ignores it.

 

His hand dips low on her back. Too low. Peter’s fingertips graze just beneath her waistband, making soothing, circular motions before rising up her back again; it turns her on further. Lydia frowns into her forearms, squirming, and looks over her shoulder at him. Peter notices and falls still, his hand only halfway down her back again.

 

“Too much?” he asks, a genuine inquiry.

 

Lydia thinks about telling him yes. Instead, she moves her arms out from under her head and lays her cheek upon the pillow as her hands dip between her body and the mattress. She unbuttons her jeans and pushes them down, kicking them off the rest of the way. Peter’s eyes involuntary flick down to drink in her almost naked form, all the way down to her feet and up again. Save for a pair of cotton panties, she is bare to his gaze.

 

“I like it,” Lydia admits in a low voice. “Go on.”

 

Peter takes the encouragement and uses it, grazing his hand over the roundness of her bottom. His fingers move too close to the dip between her legs at the end, grazing her intimately for a brief moment. Lydia arches from the little shock of pleasure that comes from such a short touch; she thinks it’s stupid, but she parts her legs and gazes at him. Peter sees it before he looks to her face. Lydia wonders if it’s surprise, but his teeth dig into his bottom lip and he slides his hand to cup her through the center of her soaked panties.

 

He rubs her through the fabric until she’s driving back onto his hand, moaning in the pillow. Lydia slips her hand between herself and the bed, under her panties, to touch herself. Peter pulls his hand further back, allowing her room to slide a finger in, and then another, and she gasps at the feel of them inside her. Lydia works them back and forth—knowing herself—heel on her clit, eliciting her own whimpers and moans and soft gasps. He barely has room to touch her anymore that isn’t her thighs or her ass; her hand is in the way.

 

“Turn over,” Peter urges breathlessly, and she pauses, trying to clear her mind to consider what he has in mind. Unsuccessful with that, she turns over.

 

He slips his hands up her legs, slowly grasping her panties and pulling them off. He touches her thighs with his palms and parts them until she’s open before his eyes, and Lydia feels her cheeks flush with the heat of embarrassment as being so bare until he guides her hand back to where it was before.

 

“Play with yourself,” Peter tells her. _I want to see_ remains unspoken, but Lydia sees it in his eyes.

 

Lydia tips her head back, returning to pleasuring herself with him watching. He presses his fingers hard against her clit, rubbing slow circles into it at first as she slides her fingers in and out, gasping softly. The pressure builds quickly with his added weight, his hand and her hand driving her to pleasure as they move with more insistence together, and Lydia reaches a climax faster than she anticipates. It washes over her in jagged ripples as he keeps pressing into her clit, his lips parted above her as he watches her come undone.

 

Sleepily, Lydia curls onto her side in the aftermath. She looks at him over her shoulder. She wants to say something, but she isn’t doing anything for him tonight. Peter doesn’t ask, nor does he look expectant. He just stares at her, his eyes roving over her naked form, eating her up.

 

“What is it?” she asks softly.

 

“I wonder what your skin tastes like,” Peter admits.

 

“For you,” Lydia whispers, “probably ashes.”

 

-

 

Peter thinks he’s so clever. He comes over one day, brandishing a silk scarf, and Lydia eyes it unwelcomingly until he steps close with it. He lays it over her nose and mouth, barely touching her with the fabric. Lydia draws back at first, but he halts so he doesn’t alarm her.

 

“Let me show you,” Peter coaxes, and Lydia sighs because she knows she’s going to let him try whatever scheme he’s cooked up, and she does.

 

He ties the scarf into place behind her head with a secure but soft knot, and then his hands—his _bare_ hands—are on her face over the silk, holding her cheeks as he presses his mouth to hers and kisses her.

 

It’s strange, Lydia thinks at first. Really strange, and though the fabric is smooth and slides easily against her lips, it’s still fabric. It’s dry. Peter moves his lips over hers, though, over the silk, and she _feels_ them. She feels his lips catch on hers, and she kisses him back. It’s the strangest, most wonderful thing in the world. Lydia doesn’t touch him, too afraid to touch. The self-discipline in her hands is stronger than the one for her mouth.

 

They can’t deepen the kiss, but they grow more frantic—elated, maybe, that this even works—and Lydia wants to kiss him and bite him through his shirts in this manner. She could even—

 

The kiss breaks, Peter pulling back first. His hands hold either side of her face as he looks at her, and Lydia can’t stop herself.

 

“You could kiss a normal girl without a scarf,” she tells him, voice muffled under the silk. Lydia doesn’t understand his insistence, his determination, to find ways to touch her—the untouchable.

 

“Yes,” Peter concurs, speaking quickly and without thought, “but this is _so_ much more fun.”

 

A flash of rage hits her, and Lydia lifts her hand to slap him—but her hand stops just inches from Peter’s face. She isn’t wearing any gloves. She didn’t know Peter was coming over today, so she didn’t wear them. Peter is frozen, staring at her hand through wary, half-fearful eyes.

 

Her hand trembles, fingers clenching into her fist, and then Lydia drops it to her side. She wrenches away from his hold, tearing the scarf from her face. Throwing it down, Lydia hurries off.

 

The silk flutters soundlessly to the floor.

 

-

 

Peter doesn’t say _I’m sorry_. Peter doesn’t apologize for anything unless it’s with a mocking tone or out of a dry sense of humor. What Peter does do is show up at her door looking like a kicked puppy left out in the rain too long by himself, and his eyes do all the talking that his lips don’t do.

 

“I am _not_ a game,” Lydia reinforces, and Peter shakes his head.

 

“That came out wrong,” he admits immediately.

 

His words are met with instant relief because she can sense the honesty in them, and she believes him.

 

Lydia doesn’t say _apology accepted_ like Peter doesn’t say _I’m sorry_ , but somehow both things are inherently understood.

 

-

 

It’s absolutely freezing.

 

Lydia is bundled beneath three layers of clothing, including an oversized puffy coat. Her hair is down in loose curls, splayed over the back of its fluffy hood. A soft scarf wrapped around her neck covers her nose and mouth as well as shields her from the biting cold; hands in purple mittens, stuffed into her coat pockets, and snow boots seal the look.

 

Peter sits beside her, less affected by the weather. He isn’t even wearing a cap. He’s dressed in the basics: coat over a sweater, gloves, and jeans tucked into his boots. Lydia leans into his side as she watches the people ice skating in the open rink. She lays her head on his shoulder.

 

Silently, Peter slips his gloved hand from his pocket and into her coat pocket with her hand, linking their fingers together, holding her hand.

 

Lydia thinks it’s the most sentimental thing he’s ever done.

 

“Do you want to join them?” It’s Peter asking, not Lydia.

 

Lydia shrugs her shoulders. She doesn’t want to seem too eager to stay here. “Not yet,” she simply says, sounding a little bored. It’s all for effect.

 

Peter buys it, and doesn’t say a word.

 

-

 

Lydia thinks it’s strange, what they’ve fallen into—a corporeal existence in an intangible idea, half-existing on the edge of something impalpable. They may as well exist only in each other’s minds, she thinks, for all the lack of physical contact, for the yards and yards of sheets and fabric between them. So close, and yet so far away. She’s never known anything so personal as his gaze, as intimate as his hand, as visceral as his mind. He’s bled his way into her life, and she can’t find anything that he hasn’t touched.

 

Except her. Everything but her mind. He knows his way around every edge and chipped shoulder, every chagrined smile and icy remark. He’s spent his lack of time on learning every curve of her body to learning every alleyway in her brain, every dark corner explored and revealed to him until she swears sometimes that he knows her better than he knows himself. He is his own worst enemy, blind to his own weaknesses like pride before the fall.

 

Lydia used to live alone, but now he occupies her apartment half of the time. His scent is on everything. Lydia can’t sleep without thinking he’s there, even when he’s not—because she smells him, flesh, pheromones, and cologne, on everything he’s touched, everywhere he’s walked. Even, sometimes, his blood.

 

He’s still an idiot. Still a foolish and unreasonable ticking time bomb that gets into trouble he can’t get out of. He’s found his way to her apartment, bleeding from silver or wolfsbane, on more than one occasion, and Lydia has had to use her knowledge to patch him up and fix his wounds and her own good sense and judgment to counteract his irrational choices.

 

 _One day_ , Lydia says, _you’re going to get yourself killed, and I won’t be able to bring you back from that a second time_.

 

Peter only smiles through half-lidded eyes, a by-product of whatever saline solution she injects him with because Peter’s mind is stronger than Peter’s actual body, and he’ll believe almost anything if it’s presented in the right alluring light. _If I’m ever unsalvageable_ , he jokes, _I’ll just ask you to kiss me_.

 

It’s not a joke, but Lydia prefers to think of it as one. It’s less unsettling that way.

 

He finds his way into her bed more than once as well—not to touch her, which would seem the most likely choice, but to sleep next to her. Peter is a like a cub when presented with a home and a matriarchal figure, an idea as sharp to him as it was for her dog, Prada. It’s subconscious, not something he’ll ever admit out loud, but Peter is a beta, not an alpha. He’ll say one thing, but feel another. Lydia has learned to recognize the cracks in the façade he puts on for others. Peter is dependent, not a leader, and yet it vexes him when he isn’t listened to or taken seriously from his position. Lydia has learned: it’s not power he really wants, it’s receptive human emotions. It’s respect. It’s value. Significance.

 

Meaning.

 

He crawls into bed beside her, and it’s ten times worse because the possibilities of him accidentally touching her in his sleep are exponential—or her touching him. They can’t control the motions of their bodies, the slip of a shirt or a sock, or the very human urge to wrap into each other and wake up not knowing where one of them begins and the other ends.

 

Lydia said no at first. She didn’t say no to many things, but she said no to that. It was out of fear. Peter listened, only when he didn’t have to. When she was asleep and he could crawl in beside her without her protests, he did it until she stopped protesting altogether. Even if she didn’t stop, Lydia is sure they still would have ended up here eventually.

 

He lies beside her, his face nestled against her hair on the pillow, his arm draped over hers.

 

His hand twitches a fraction away from hers, their bare fingers almost grazing.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, I totally didn't write this bonus chapter as a result of the opening of the [Pydia Porn Collection](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/PydiaPack_PornCollection).
> 
> Ah, who am I kidding, I totally did. ;-)
> 
>  **WARNING:** Extreme fluffiness ahead. Oh, yeah, and it's all smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I considered writing more to this for a while now, especially since I started thinking about it after I wrote the initial one-shot and had a conversation with one of my friends about this fic. I told her I figured out a way they could actually have sex despite the fact that it really looked like they couldn't, and she was like, "hOW?!" Clearly, I am Peter, and Peter is me. Where there is a will, there's a way.

_* * *_

 

Lydia has always known that Peter’s insistence to find a way to push boundaries would lead to this one day.

 

She arches her back, gasping and spreading her knees further, sliding against the sheets, as he works his fingers slowly inside of her. Lydia feels the lube he drips onto her ass; it trickles down, tickling her skin with pleasant ripples and making her to shudder from the inside out. They elevated from cloth to thin latex gloves, and Peter had to talk her into it when he first suggested it. Lydia had not given in easily. _I do not want our non-existent sex life to feel like a doctor appointment_ , she had said.

 

She had been so, so wrong.

 

Peter spreads the fingers he has in her and pulls them out almost all the way, and Lydia tips her head back, eyes closed, and moans aloud from the very back of her throat. She cries out, losing her balance against the sheets, as he drives them back into her. The muscles of her thighs clench tight, even as her legs are parted open for him, and Lydia has to grasp the sheets in her fists as Peter quickens the pace of his hand behind her.

 

She whimpers at first, the sounds growing in succession, and Peter realizes she is close. He is not soft when Lydia is about to climax; the rougher he is, the quicker, more intensely she comes for him. He reaches underneath her with his free hand, finds a rhythm against her clit to match the fingers he has pumping in and out of her, and Lydia’s whimpers turn into cries, and she buries her face against the bed as her back arches sharply.

 

He fucks her right through it, extending her orgasm further, her muscles seizing around the fingers inside of her. She pulses from it, shuddering at her sensitivity afterwards when he pulls out. She feels completely exposed as he runs his slick fingers along her naked back afterwards.

 

Lydia feels him shift on the bed as she breathes in slowly. “Come here,” he rasps, throat raw with his own desire. Lydia rises to see Peter sitting on the bed instead of kneeling, facing her.

 

While she is naked from head to toe, Peter wears clothes still. The rules mean no direct skin to skin contact can be made, and he insists on caressing her bare skin to give her as much pleasure as possible, so Lydia usually ends up more naked than him. However, despite her bare figure, Peter lifts something from the bed in the near dark of the room. It dangles from his hand, and Lydia thinks it looks like stockings.

 

“What is that?” she asks, curiosity getting the better of her. In her aroused state, she wants to touch him. They talked about this. They talked about it in advance, and Lydia knows what they’re _supposed_ to do, but she doesn’t know exactly _how_ they are going to do it.

 

Under the smallest glint of light from the window, she sees Peter smirk. “Crawl to me, and I’ll show you.”

 

Lydia thinks about it, but she doesn’t find any qualms with his suggestion, so she gets on her palms and knees and crawls the rest of the way to him. Gently, Peter touches her arm and ushers her to sit up. Lydia follows that, too. Next, he hands her the items from his hand; it’s two things, Lydia realizes, and she feels a surge of excitement rush through her once she figures out what they are as she turns them over in her hands.

 

She was right about the first assumption; one is a pair of stockings. The other is a pair of crotchless panties. Her cheeks redden, but she feels her breath quicken in her chest as well.

 

“Are we really going to try this?” she asks, her voice sounding small.

 

“Only if you want to,” Peter says softly, causing her to look up.

 

And Lydia wants to, she does; she has wanted to for some time. Ever since Peter showed her how the gloves worked, how he could touch her and be inside of her with them, and how they progressed to flavored condoms so she could return all that he did for her to him. How he would thread his fingers through her hair and hold her steady as she looked up at him, hollowed out her cheeks, and took him into her mouth. How she could hum against him and bob her head, causing him to swear above her.

 

Lydia lays out on the bed, slipping on the panties and sliding the stockings over them. She notices the stockings are cut, too, in the same place. Looking up at him from her vantage point, Lydia bites her lip and runs her bare hands over breasts, arching into her own touch as she watches Peter.

 

His hands are bare as he pulls himself through the opening of his boxers, strokes himself to full hardness, and slides the condom down all the way. Lydia sits up, staring as he grabs the silk gloves again—the ones he uses to touch the rest of her skin—and slides them back on. She dips forward into his lap during that, taking his cock into her mouth and startling Peter with the sudden movement. She feels the jolt and giggles around him, and he dissolves into a groan, his hand cupping the back of her head.

 

Lydia pulls off of him, not wanting to focus all of her time on something they get to do all the time. She crawls into his lap and straddles him properly, taking him in her hand.

 

For two people who are supposed to be doomed to never touch, they have found a lot of loopholes together.

 

Her throat seizes in a gasp as she sinks down onto his cock the first inch. Peter’s face pinches up, and then he opens his mouth, staring at her as she stares back at him. Lydia sinks down a little further. They both watch the other’s face, unable to touch feverishly. Unable to kiss. All they have at their disposal is their eyes and the ability to watch the other come undone.

 

Lydia’s thighs reach his hips, and so she begins to rock into him with a slow and deliberate rhythm, her eyes never leaving his. Despite the clothes sheltering their skin from each other, it’s very personal. Lydia can still feel him fully inside of her as their hips find an equal rhythm to follow together.

 

She keeps it slow and steady at first, running her hands over his chest and never quite reaching the dip in his v-neck where the skin is exposed. Lydia has to fight back the urge to bite him, to brand him with her teeth, to kiss his skin afterwards and ease the angry red marks. She tries to fight it, but she can’t, so she leans into him and bites down on his shoulder through his shirt; Peter hisses, and Lydia rolls her hips in a wave until he shudders.

 

She pulls back, leaning away from him and using the bed as leverage behind her. His eyes rove hungrily over her body, and he smoothes a silk glove up her chest until he closes it around the swell of her breast. Lydia quickens her pace into him until he’s breathing irregular, her palms braced hard against the mattress behind her. Peter rocks to match it, his hand reaching out for her hip to grasp her.

 

In the rush of her need to feel as intensely as possible, Lydia collapses her back to the bed and spreads her legs wider for him. “Fuck me, please,” she begs, and he leans over her, grasping her firmly and snapping his hips forward. She cries out, so Peter does it again and again until the bed is shaking as he tries his hardest to fuck her through it.

 

His eyes begin to glow bright blue above her in the darkness, and for a moment, a spike of fear and adrenaline course through her veins as she grasps the bed. A snap of his hips, and he has fangs protruding from his open mouth. Another, and Lydia feels multiple sharp lances pierce into her hips, but it’s only for a second. They’re gone as Peter grabs the bed above her, and he snarls, a slash of mattress sounding through the air with a rip so loud she gasps in shock.

 

An orgasm wracks through her body not a moment later, and he keeps pounding into her while she cries out and shudders unsteadily beneath him. Another snarl fills the air, and Lydia thinks he might fuck her right off the bed as she grasps the sheets, feeling herself slide along them under his assault. Her bones loosen up as she comes again with an unexpected violence, her vision going soft and blurry as she just lets everything go while he chases his release inside her.

 

Peter stills with a sound above her that is half a gasp, half a hiss. His hips give an uneven jerk; hard at first, then short, and then it’s a long, slow slide into her as he exhales somewhere near her ear and shudders. Lydia can feel his chest quaking above hers, and she runs her hands over the fabric of his shoulders. Peter goes to shift and falls, his arms giving out beneath him; Lydia gasps at the impact of him against her chest, and then she snorts, a full-bodied, chest-wracking laugh taking over her.

 

“Oh,” Peter says, trying to catch his breath, “you find this funny?”

 

“Is that normal?” Lydia asks, finding trouble breathing as well. She gives herself a moment before trying to speak again. “Wolfing out like that?”

 

“No,” he gasps. He is so close she hears him swallow. “I haven’t . . . haven’t done that before . . . ”

 

“So,” she teases, “am I special?”

 

Peter tries to pull off of her, but he nearly falls again. Lydia grabs his shoulder to steady him, nearly bursting out laughing once more.

 

“Please don’t crush me,” she says.

 

Peter grunts. “I’m trying not to.”

 

Lydia rubs his shoulder. “Just lay here for a moment, then,” she whispers. “Let it pass.”

 

Peter sighs, and she sees him bury his face against the bed beside her. He props his forearms against the mattress, even if it doesn’t do much good, it does keep some of his weight off her and lets her breathe. In the meantime while they wait, Lydia runs her hands up and down his back in soothing gestures.

 

Her body still tingles in the aftermath, and his weight above her is an odd source of comfort. This is something intimate Lydia never thought she would ever get to share with him, and it’s made more intimate by the bond that came before it. The relationship they built was based on feelings and the familiarity of knowing each other’s heads and hearts rather than their bodies. Touch is a careful act between them, even now, with her stockings and his boxers and long sleeve shirt and the gloves on his hands. All of these things are barriers between them, and yet Lydia doesn’t feel as if they are actually there.

 

She wants to touch his hair, run her fingers through it, but without gloves on, she can’t touch him like that. Lydia sighs, grasping the back of his shirt in her fist. In hindsight she wishes she had thought of that in advance and worn some herself.

 

Feeling her grip on his shirt as well as hearing her sigh, Peter manages to find the strength to raise himself up from the mattress and look at her.

 

“Is everything all right?” he asks, a tint of worry to the soft gleam in his eyes.

 

Lydia meets his gaze, wishing she could touch his face. “Yes,” she says, nodding softly. In her head she imagines cupping his cheek. Unconsciously, she licks her lips and blinks, looking up at him. “I love you.”

 

Peter stills above her. At first, his eyes look sad, and then she just realizes; it’s not sadness. It’s just years and years of expectation of the opposite and disbelief that anyone could feel that way about him. Lydia feels her eyes water up until Peter startles her by leaning into her, and she gasps, “ _No_ —”

 

He halts just a fraction of an inch away from her lips.

 

They both breathe shakily until he pulls back, grasping one of the bed sheets and pulling it towards them. Gently, Peter lays it over her lower face and leans in to kiss her. It’s nothing but a press of lips and then a slide of their mouths together, but it’s better than anything else she could ask for, even with the cloth between them.

 

When he pulls back, Peter whispers against the sheet, “I love you, too . . . ”

 

Lydia closes her eyes, tears at the corner, as he rubs a silk-gloved thumb against her cheek.

 

 


End file.
